Further Reading
by ashestoashesanddusttodust
Summary: Unrelated Gen drabbles.
1. Chapter 1

**Mullet  
**

**A Word**: Tumblr request for Dami to find out about Dick's unique fashion sense via Tim's stalkerish ways. More focused on the fashion because I think Damian would approve of stalking.

.

* * *

.

Damian lets himself into Drake's room. There is nothing much of worth to entertain him with at home since Pennyworth barred him from training for the next three hours so he is left to find his own sources. Drake, in the process of acquiring his own living space, is in the midst of packing. A tedious process that Richard had insisted Damian help them both with. A prospect that seemed to have agreed with Drake as much as it had Damian at the time.

A reaction that was explained when all Richard did was throw objects and clothing around in an unorganized mess while making fun of Drake's tastes. An amusing sport that did nothing to alleviate the annoyance of his older brother's haphazard packing skills. Drake had eventually thrown the idiot out and the two of them had made significantly better progress afterwards.

Damian shifts through the well organized pile of boxes until he finds the one he is looking for. It's slightly battered and had come out of Drake's closet already sealed. The man had become evasive when Richard asked about it, and openly hostile when Damian tried to open it.

The tape is old and peels up easily. Meaning Drake has had this box sealed for a good while now. Inside are books. No, Damian picks one up, they are photo albums. Richard has, of course, gone on at length about Drake's photographic skills, but Damian has never seen them before. Intrigued he opens the album.

And almost immediately recoils at the assault of color against his eyes.

The first page is an enlarged photo of —Damian's jaw nearly unhinges at the recognition— Richard. Yes, that is the idiot's smile set behind one of the most hideous haircuts Damian has had the misfortune to see. It's long in the back, short in the front, and standing straight up on the top. His shirt is a violent shade of violet that hangs half open over his chest and clashes in a headache inducing way with the neon green pants he is wearing. Tight pants that just might be actual spandex. Damian's not entirely sure as he's trying his best not to stare, because it's obvious Richard is not wearing anything under them.

Damian feels a twinge of sympathetic embarrassment for his older brother. One that he crushes ruthlessly as he removes the picture. Richard is an idiot and Damian has no problem exploiting that weakness when it suits him. The pure blackmail and humiliation potential of owning this picture is far to great to pass up on. Writing, dark and new looking, on the back catches his attention.

'He wore this willingly believe it or not. Thank you for your help the other day, Damian. You may do with this what ever you wish.'

He frowns. Dismayed that Drake had known what Damian would do, but he looses that feeling fast when he flips the terrible picture back around. He smiles as he leaves Drake's room. Planning the best uses for his newest possession.

.

.


	2. Chapter 2

**Cuppa  
**

**A Word**: Prompt: the family takes Tim's coffee supply away and he gets his own revenge.

.

* * *

.

It starts out as a bad day when Tim realizes he is out of coffee. His container is empty and even the emergency bag he keeps under the bathroom sink is gone. Tim stares at his coffee pot in outrage for far too many minutes before his brain can sort it out. It's Dick or maybe even Jason. They're the only two who would use his apartment and not be considerate enough to warn him when they use the last of his coffee up.

Tim vows revenge. Bloody and painful revenge as he leaves for work. His morning routine is so precisely calculated that Tim doesn't even have the time to stop at a coffee shop for a cup without being late. Something that Tam has worked hard to put the fear of god into him about. To the point where Tim will drag his still bleeding body into the office just to avoid it.

He makes it in with enough seconds to spare to grab a substandard cup from the lobby's coffee pot. It's burnt tasting and far too late to stave off his caffeine headache. Dick and Jason will pay dearly for it.

His headache hasn't subsided by the time he makes his way to the employee lounge and its food carts for a brief lunch. He stares at the inexpensive coffee cart that usually makes a pretty good mocha in dumbfounded surprise. "Tea?"

Manuela shrugs. Blasé like a person only gets when dealing with a very specific side of Bruce's public mask. "Your little brother insisted," she says. Her accent thickening as she talks about Damian, whom the woman absolutely adores for some inexplicable reason Tim's never been able to understand. "He said he had a point to prove and would cover any losses. There really hasn't been much profit loss though. Everyone seems to like it."

This isn't a single event, Tim realizes as he backs away. A burning anger stoking slowly to life. This is a concerted attack from multiple people and all aimed at him. His brothers are going to _pay_ for this.

Bruce is going to pay for it too.

Tim nearly laughs as he stares at the bag of coffee he's been pouring into the pot all day. The standard brand WE provides to its employees that Tim's avoided as much as humanly possible until that day. When his meetings have been too close for him to run to Starbucks and every intern he's sent has been swallowed alive by the building. Never to be seen again. And, now, _this_.

Decaffeinated. The bag proudly displays in the smallest letters possible.

Tim's head throbs as he drops the bag and his head to the counter. They're going to pay. All of them. Every last member of his sadistic family.

Alfred greets Tim's arrival at the manor with a perfectly fixed cup of coffee. Tim sighs as he drains it. Feeling a euphoric rush as the blessed liquid rushes through his system. "You may live," he intones and ignores the amused cast of Alfred's face as he leaves the kitchen. Tim's got a revenge mission to enact and not a lot of time to pull it off.

Damian is livid. The boy is almost purple as he enters the kitchen where Tim is communing with the cheap coffee pot they all use. The elegant presses behind it reserved for Alfred's use only. "Drake! What have you done to my bed?"

Tim's stuffed the entire thing with crackers and salt. Which normally would have earned him Alfred's ire but Tim had already ordered a replacement mattress and sheets. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Why? Something wrong?"

Damian growls and Tim can see crumbs of crackers in his hair. Something gritty that might be salt in the crease of his neck where it has to itch like crazy. Tim smiles blandly and takes a sip of coffee.

Dick wanders out of the pantry before Damian can let loose with a tirade. He looks wounded and sad as he wraps Tim up in a hug. His voice wheedling and contrite as he looks for pity. "I'm sorry, little brother."

Tim smiles and pats Dick on the back. Amused all over again at the older man's dependence on crunchy cereal and still not feeling the least bit merciful. "I still have no idea what you're going on about Dick."

His phone goes off again. Buzzing across the counter in an angry dance that probably perfectly reflects the increasingly profane messages Jason's leaving him. Something about blanks and Nerf toys which Tim also knows nothing about.

Tim drinks his coffee and smiles at his brothers. Wondering how Bruce is handling the all day long string of press statements about charities that Tam is in charge of making the man sit through.

.

.


	3. Chapter 3

**Vacation  
**

**A Word**: Aw, the prompt was for Tim, Damian, and JAY getting lost on an island. I don't know why I transposed Dick instead of Jay. Oh well, guess that means I gotta write another one because Jay instead of Dick makes all the difference.

.

* * *

.

"There are no signs of any technological or biological threat at all," Tim says. Flat and emotionless as he comes across Damian on a pristine beach of the small island they're on.

"Neither," Damian says with a scowl threatening to break bones, "are there any signs of human habitation beyond the obvious one."

The obvious sign is a quaint little hut with two rooms and a kitchen area that's been recently stocked if the smells coming from the area are to be believed. Tim feels his lips thin as he presses them together tightly in irritation. Dick hadn't even tried to keep up his deception once the three of them had been dropped off, but thoroughness and a fine sense of paranoia required Tim and Damian to check for themselves.

"This is not the urgent mission Grayson briefed us on," Damian fairly spits. Arms crossed over his chest and his boots caked in sand that had to be irritating him even more.

"No," Tim agrees. It's worse than that. He turns to face the building that's supposed to house the three of them for however long this thing was to last. Damian shifts in response to the way Tim's expression goes grim and deadly serious. "This is a vacation."

Damian looks at him. Face incredulous and outraged before he spins. Cape flaring out just enough to be truly dramatic as he stomp/slides his way inward. His rage filled voice launching seagulls and small creatures from the forested area around them. "Grayson!"

Tim follows. Trying not to twist his ankle in the loose sand because his suit is designed for cities not beaches. Damian can have the first hit at Dick for this little prank, and Tim will enjoy every second of it. And then he will wait. Bide his time until Dick's guard inevitably goes down before striking.

A _vacation_. Really, what was Dick thinking?

.

.


	4. Chapter 4

**Rise  
**

**A Word**: Written while loopy after getting a request for Tim taking 4 days to get outta coffin.

.

* * *

.

The ground shifts imperceptibly. Shivering as a bulge slowly pushes upward. Specks of dirt rolling down the mound as a crack splits the earth. Clods of it fall away as pale fingers push through the earth. Stretching far and spreading in the free air.

Dirt explodes out as an arm and a head follow. A guttural moan ripping through the air as cloudy blue eyes stare out from dirt encrusted bangs. Lax flesh turning black and rotten from where it hangs in strips on the face of something that used to be a man

It pulls great handfuls of dirt and grass up as it wriggles slowly out of the hole. Sightless eyes fixed on the blazing light of the city beyond the graveyard. Pulsating with life that pulls the corpse to it's shambling feet.

Dirt collapses, partially filling the hole before a tombstone etched with the name Timothy Drake.

.

.


	5. Chapter 5

**Lost  
**

**A Word**: The corrected response for Jay, Tim, and Damian being lost.

.

* * *

.

"I said turn right," Tim says full of pissiness and self-righteous anger as he stomps after Jason.

"Bullshit!" Jason snaps and turns on the young man. Fists balled and waiting for that one last smart ass remark that the fucker can never hold back from. "You said left and I fucking listened so don't even try blaming this shit on me!"

Tim's eyes narrow behind the mask. Something Jason can see in how his lips thin and nearly disappear. "You're remembering things wrong. As usual. The coast was _clearly_ to the right but you wanted to cut through the forest because you were," Tim's voice went high and whiny, "'fucking tired of being wet.'"

Oh it was fucking on! Jason lunged for the asshole. "You mouthy little-"

Tim goes limp and rolls with the tackle. Using Jason's own momentum to get on top. Avoiding Jason's first punch in exchange for a kick that probably hurt him as much as it hurt Jason. His second punch lands right in the joint of armor under the ribs and Tim spits out a curse as he rolls off to put some distance between them. Jason gets his feet under him and assesses the asshole's defense. Looking for the spot to put his fist.

"Enough!" Damian, the little shit, plants himself squarely between them. The sword Jason's _sure_ Dick had confiscated before the mission drawn and shining in the diffuse light. "_Both_ of you idiots are at fault for this catastrophe, and I will have both your heads if you do not cease this fight!"

Jason growls at the demonic brat and gets the fucking sword leveled at his face. The kid is nothing, he could take him easy but it's not worth it. Tim's already on his feet. Adjusting the fall of his cape and pretending like nothing's happened. Like a fucking cat.

"We'll continue the way we're going," Tim states calmly. "With how far we've already gone we're bound to reach something soon."

"_Something_," Jason spits as he brushes some dirt off his jacket. Glaring at Tim over the kid's head. "Just remember later, this one's on you too."

Tim sets off without a word and Jason follows. Damian bringing up the rear with a mutter, "They call _me_ the child?"

.

.


	6. Chapter 6

**Shop Smart, Shop S-Mart **

**A Word**: Request for Tim needing an art elective and only being able to choose choir or theater. The family finds out and enjoy the hell outta themselves. My knowledge of theater is limited, and, despite my best intentions, I have yet to see the musical used as a foil here. I'd also like to think that opening night is the first and last time Tim has to play it because someone on the school board figures out exactly what they approved and shuts it right down.

.

* * *

.

Tim's not sure about a lot of things at this point in his life, a mere two months from graduating out of high school. Mundane things because Tim's already got the big things figured out.

He's not sure why he needs one more art elective course, or why that course had come down to a choice between choir and theater. He doesn't know why after rejecting choir -because he _can't_ sing, at all- he was picked to be the lead role in a musical. Why he was taken away from the tech job he was doing perfectly well to begin with. It's not like Tim _doesn't_ have to fix the equipment every day anyway, because the idiot teenage boys who needed one more class don't know the meaning of the phrase, "Touch that again and I will be forced to break your fingers."

He doesn't understand what had possessed him to tell _Dick_ of all people about his plight, or why he's been so surprised at the family's enthusiastic response to it. Tim's not sure of a lot of things but the one that tops his mind as Donny Miles gets over enthusiastic with the powder puff is how _anyone_ could have signed off on letting a bunch of high school kids perform Evil Dead the Musical. Tim would suspect family interference if it weren't for the fact that it was approved before Tim chose the class.

"Break a leg!" Donny is a cheerful sort and is the only cast member not currently sweating bullets. Tim admires that even as his never dimming grin annoys him.

"In multiple places," Jason snickers and that's another thing Tim's not sure about. How the hell _he_ got into the classroom they're using for a dressing room. It's roped off and one of the teacher's assistants has been dead set on not letting anyone not a student beyond a certain point. "Make up for a dork like you landing such a kickass role."

"I didn't even want it," Tim protests as he goes out into the hall. The clothes he's wearing are plain and until Ash looses his hand Tim won't need to go back to wardrobe. He's lucky that way. Some of the veteran theater kids had told horror stories about five second changes between every scene. Jason sidesteps a frazzled looking stagehand shouting something about the lights that makes Tim twitch. "What are you doing back here anyway? I thought you said you wanted front row seats to the show."

To Tim's humiliation, had been Jason's exact words. "I think Alfred's the only one who didn't bring a camera tonight. I don't need to sit with the rest of them now. So I thought I'd get a bird's eye view."

"You can't-" Tim starts to protest when Ms. Smythe walks away from her spot eying the barricade of chairs across the hallway. She gives Jason a shy, besotted smile that Jason returns with his very best well behaved grin. "Jason!"

"What?" Jason gives him a shit eating grin because he knows damn well how badly he's ruining Tim's life.

"I swear if I don't pass this stupid class because of you," Tim let's the threat trail off because he's not sure what he'll do to Jason. He just knows it will be epic if he has to take a summer class just to get out of high school.

"Whatever, baby bird," Jason sneers as he shoves Tim toward the stage door. "Go break your face for the cameras. I'll be in the ceiling throwing shit at you."

Jason disappears as Tim's caught by one of the harried assistants who doesn't look like she's had any sleep all week. Tim stumbles as he's almost thrown in place. "Three minutes!"

Tim peers through a crack in the stiff curtains and feels dread pool in his stomach. The whole family is there right in the front row. It looks like Bruce leveraged _Babs_ to get there. Tim steps back as people shuffle frantically around him. There are also, true to Jason's words, a lot of cameras out there.

Something bounces off his head. Tim gets a glance at a round, orange thing just before the curtains rattle and Tim has to look bored. If he finds out Jason's wasting Skittles on his petty fun Tim will start planning his revenge early.

.

.


	7. Chapter 7

**Balance**

**A Word**: Getcha tissues out. Request for Damian finding out Dick's been dead for months after he comes back to life.

.

* * *

.

Damian is stricken dumb. He has not said a word since the conversation with Drake over the phone. The one that he _should_ have had with his father long before the other boy had convinced Pennyworth to hand the phone over. He does not remember much of the conversation following Drake's emotionless recital of facts Damian had been ignorant of even a week after waking in his bed. Father holding his hands and _smiling_ at him in a way he never had before.

Drake describes several months of arguments, fights, and estrangements following his death. The growing rift between Father and the rest of their small family. The increasingly desperate lengths Father had gone to in order to bring Damian back. The failed attempts to reel him back in and reconnect. Damian's resurrection and it's almost inevitable price.

The signs are there, now that Damian knows to look for them.

Pennyworth is attentive but grieving. His gaze hard and unforgiving when they turn to Father. The bright look in Father's eyes less to do with being happy to have his son with him and more to do with grief. The way the manor is maddeningly silent. The way the codes for the Cave have changed, and nothing Damian does gets him access to any weapons or gear. Not even the computer working for him. The way Father always shows up within seconds of Damian leaving his rooms. Just to stand there, in the darkest part of the room and _watch_ him with a look that is all about being torn.

Damian hangs up the phone and the way Pennyworth does not look at him is all the confirmation he needs. "I have to-" the words stick in his throat and Damian swallows hard. His eyes burn and he blinks rapidly.

"I will bring the car around," Pennyworth says in a tone that carries out into the hall which has grown darker since Damian picked up the phone. There is no answer or rebuttal and the man leaves. Damian stands where he is. Still and swallowing past the lump that his stuck words have made in his throat until he hears the gentle purr of an engine outside.

He does not look back as he gets into the car.

The trip passes in a blur, and Damian feels a little voice that has been denying Drake's words crumble as they pull into the cemetery. Near the plot of land that has more Wayne's in it than any other part of Gotham. Damian does not need directions to go to a corner of it, just far enough away to not be confused with a Wayne stone, where three stones stand tall. Grayson had taken Damian there once before when there were only two.

The newest stone is bright. Untouched by weather and age, and not very fitting for the man who is buried under it. Damian stares at the stone and the slight mound before it. Flowers, pictures, and a ragged looking teddy bear are grouped at the base of the stone. Well tended for all that they have likely been there for a few weeks.

A hand touches his shoulder. Gentle but firm as Pennyworth makes his presence known. Bringing Damian back to himself enough to feel the wetness rolling down his cheeks, the tightness of his chest, and the raw feeling in his throat as he mourns his fallen brother.

Damian turns his head into the older man's side and lets his fingers steady him as he shakes but does not make a single sound.

.

.


	8. Chapter 8

**No Air  
**

**A Word**: Request for Jason suffering an asthma attack for the first time since childhood.

.

* * *

.

It's the smoke that triggers it. Something in the burning building making it toxic to his lungs despite the filters in his mask. Jason starts coughing almost immediately and doesn't stop even as he works to get out of the death trap.

His lungs spasm as Jason breaks out a window and tries to get a bead on a good spot to attach the grapple. Firing blindly when he can't see through the rising panic as his chest seems to constrict. Weight pressing down hard on his lungs preventing him from breathing the tainted air.

Jason jumps before he's even had the chance to see the line set. It doesn't _matter_ if he smears himself across the street below. He has to get out of the building. He has to-

Jason grunts as he hits the closest roof. Going too fast and too low. He rolls across it and the jolt of impact loosens something just enough to get a trickle of air in. Just a little as he paws the helmet off. The fire burning across his right leg not as important as the wheezing he can _hear_ and _feel_ as he desperately gasps.

Years of experience, of not being able to afford the medicine or inhalers to prevent this makes Jason ruthlessly repress the coughing and hacking before he can puke. Choking a little from the bile that tries to rise up anyway. Forcing himself to breathe in small, slow breaths of air. Mostly untainted now as he counts slowly. His gloved fingers digging into the roof as he uncurls himself as much as he can stand.

His chest feels so tight and the air he's getting in now isn't enough for the mad dash he did getting out. Spots roll across his tightly closed eyes and Jason's holding onto the roof now for steadiness. For an anchor against the wave of dizziness. A reminder to just keep breathing.

Slow and steady. No matter how bad it gets.

The constriction eases slowly and the panic ebbs as he gets more air in. Not letting himself gulp it down the way he wants. He waits until the spots clear to cough. A body wracking series of hacking that brings snot up his throat for him to spit out. That helps too.

Firefighters are already on site by the time Jason feels ready to move. Taking the most direct route to his nearest bolt hole. He's done for the night. The phantom weight from when he was a kid wiping him out even more thoroughly than he remembers.

.

.


	9. Chapter 9

**Alvin Drake  
**

**A Word**: Request for Tim having a twin and no one else knowing about it.

.

* * *

.

Tim didn't mean for this to go on for so long. Didn't mean for it to even become the _thing_ it's become, but he can't take complete blame for the slack jawed looks he's getting.

The looks they're _both_ getting.

"Really?" Alvin Drake drawls out as he adjusts the tie of his suit. Slightly more expensive than his normal work clothes because he's meeting very important people as Timothy Drake-Wayne and needs to make an impression. "It's not like there aren't records about us both out there. I went to the same schools you know?"

Which is actually a good point, because Bruce dealt with CPS when their dad died. Tim would have thought _someone_ would have mentioned the other Drake boy to him then. Then again -thanks to some _massive_ mismanagement of epic proportions they only discovered when they were twelve- Al has always been a kind of ghost in the system. Ironic because he's the one who most wanted a normal life.

"You guys didn't really think I got all that work done on my own did you?" Tim asks from the couch he was passed out on before Dick had barged in with Damian and Jason —why? Tim doesn't know— as Al was getting ready for work. "I'd be dead if I had to handle WE on top of my case load."

Dick looks like he's having a seizure as he looks between them both. His face morphing through emotions too fast to comprehend. "I don't understand."

"Look," Al rolls his eyes and grabs his suitcase. "I have meetings to attend and if I'm late Tam will skin me alive," he turns at the door and gives Tim a _look_ vaguely reminiscent of their mother. The look he's spent years practicing in preparations for taking over whatever poor company would hire him. "Tim can explain everything. He's the one you lot deal with most often."

Tim grimaces as Al leaves. Maybe it's time to give some serious thought into getting Al officially recognized as existing. Though his brother actually likes having the ability to appear in two places at once on occasion, and just might smother Tim for the right to the Timothy Drake-Wayne —and all it's casual influence— name.

"Uh," Tim grins weakly as three pairs of eyes turn on him. At a loss on where to start.

"Are you cloning yourself, Drake?" Damian asks with interest that Tim doesn't like at all. It's the morbid curiosity of a child learning an animal has no brain and thus can't feel pain.

Tim groans and sits up to start setting the record straight. Just in case the demon spawn decides to launch an attack or something.

.

.


	10. Chapter 10

**Lazy Day  
**

**A Word**: Request for the Outlaws having a lazy day.

.

* * *

.

Roy was not moving. Ever.

He'd obtained to sort of couch nirvana that only stoners and cats could get to easily. His body was perfectly splayed out on and supported by the cushions. The right parts sinking into the padding while others were firmly propped up. The sun slanted across his body in a pleasant heat. Warming the join between flesh and metal on his arm but avoiding his eyes.

Music drifted into the room with a nice breeze that kept him from overheating. Low enough to lull him into a kind of trance. Kori's hair tickled across his face as she shifted in her catlike sprawl across the top of the couch. The scent of her mingling in his nose with the coconut shampoo one of them had bought a week back.

"I'm never moving," Jason's voice comes from the floor. Groggy and every bit as lazy sounding as Roy feels. "I think I love bean bag chairs."

Roy would look or give the man some firm of acknowledgment but that would involve moving and possibly losing his perfect sprawl. He grunts instead. Kori's fingers drifting through his hair in a vague petting motion.

They don't speak again for a good long while.

.

.


End file.
